


Of Archers and Agents

by IuvenesCor



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, White Collar
Genre: Banter, Chance Meetings, Gen, Humor, spoilers for Captain America: Civil War and White Collar season six
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9053131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IuvenesCor/pseuds/IuvenesCor
Summary: If Peter were alone, he'd be muttering to the heavens "Why me?" by now.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DinerGuy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DinerGuy/gifts).



> For my beloved Deej-- Merry Christmas! I haven't written these fandoms in ages, but it was a blast. ^_^
> 
> Thanks to truthtakestime for moral support and encouragement on this one.

Elizabeth’s twelve thirty phone call was heaven sent for the day from bureaucratic hell. There was a God, Peter thought, as her number graced the display resting in his hand.

He pressed his thumb against the screen, sighing.

“Hey, hon,” he answered, mustering a smile as if it mattered.

_‘Hey. Working hard or hardly working?’_

“Not hard enough.” His eyes wandered to the glass wall caging him in— better yet, actually, keeping the annoyances out— observing the bustle in the division office. “If I have to put my signature on one more form I’m going to riot.”

_‘Hmm. Thought you said you’d be mostly out of the office today?’_

Drumming the fingers of his opposite hand on the desk in front of him was about all Peter could do to keep himself from making one very passive aggressive fist. “It was the plan.”

_‘Politics?’_

“I’d say no, but then I’d be lying.” He rolled his shoulders. “How’re you and Neal?”

_‘Well, I’m fine; he’s a little fussy. It’s such a great day that I thought I might take him and Satchmo out for a walk. Maybe you could escape long enough for us to make it a lunch date?’_

That was all he needed. He stood, sliding his suit jacket off his chair and shrugging into it instantly. “It’s happening,” he answered, juggling his phone between hands. “Want to finally try the new place? That deli?”

_‘Piccarillo’s? Works for me. Meet you there in… twenty, give or take?’_

“Twenty’s good. Be safe.”

_‘You too. Love you, hon.’_

Peter smiled. “Love you too.”

His smile was short lived as he placed his cell in his pocket and his hand on the door. From the first step outside his office, it was hard to ignore the professional commotion in the briefing room— now impromptu tactics room, thanks to Homeland Security’s early morning invasion that included just enough paperwork and name-dropping to not be considered a hostile takeover— but he tried anyway. He trotted down the stairs, past the desks, past several agents who really didn’t belong in his White Collar Crimes Division _thank you very much,_ and—

“Agent Burke.”

Yamada, that was the agent’s name, right? Peter remembered perfectly well, but he couldn’t exactly say he _cared._ At any rate, Yamada was blocking his way.

“Where are you going?” the young man inquired in a tone of voice that seemed to answer his own question with _you’re not going anywhere unless I say so._

“Lunch,” replied Peter quite simply, trying not to be offended at the fact that some lucky upstart no doubt fresh out of Quantico was throwing his weight around. “I promised my wife.”

The HS agent narrowed his eyes. “That’s just great, but we need your cooperation in this arrangement.”

“So? You’ve already gotten my cooperation and every square foot of my division, but you won’t let me lend any man power to speed up your little operation. With all due respect, you don’t need me here.” He paused for emphasis, just in case his _I am done with this_ face wasn’t getting the point across. “Unless you want to let me back into _my_ briefing room so I can stay up to date, I’m just stuck twiddling my thumbs. If you haven’t needed me by this point, I doubt you’lll need me at all. Take your questions to Agent Jones while I’m gone— he’s more than capable.”

“But—”

“One hour, that’s all I’m taking. The minute you need me, I’m here, Yamada. But if you don’t trust me to be a part of your operation now, I highly doubt that’s going to change in the future.”

Advantage Peter Burke. The agent was glaring, clearly without any feasible excuses lined up, and let out a deep, soundless sigh. He walked away, up the stairs and to his confiscated playroom where he closed the door behind him with some undue force.

(Jones had been descending the stairs as Yamada was ascending. He surreptitiously watched the man pass by before turning his attention to Peter, making a face and a brief thumbs-up. Peter just smirked and shook his head.)

With that out of the way, he could finally escape for his well-deserved breath of fresh air.

 

El had ordered antipasto; Peter chose the sub of the day. Neal contented himself by chewing away at his teething ring, and Satch sat quietly, patiently beside the stroller.

To say that time flew would be trite, but it certainly was sprinting away too fast for Peter’s liking. They finished their meal, sat for a few minutes more, and started the slow stroll back to his car. The lot he had parked in (he didn’t feel like hassling with the joys of parallel parking at lunch time) was three blocks down, but he appreciated the opportunity to walk alongside his family for those extra few minutes. On tedious days, it really was the little things that helped keep him sane.

“Well, I’m sorry you have to go back to having your hands tied,” his wife apologized, nestling her arm against his. He had explained what he could— that there was another agency parading themselves around in White Collar Crimes and using their space for an important assignment, and that the agent in charge had that look about him that screamed volumes on how much he liked being top of the food chain and how little he wanted anyone to poke at his precious tower of hierarchy— which still couldn’t get all the annoyance out of his system. “You’d think they could at least let you take care of your job instead of keeping you penned up.”

“Yeah, you’d think.” He shook his head, fishing his key ring out of his pocket. They followed the sidewalk around an art studio and towards a pitted old sign that advertised _Public Parking - $5 per hour._

“How long are they going to be there for, anyway?”

“I have no clue.” He did, somewhat, but he couldn’t place a definite timeframe. “Which is what really irks me.”

El frowned. “You don’t think they’re going to make you stay late, do you?”

“As things are,” he sighed, “yeah. But believe me, I’m going to fight it.”

They took another corner, this time into the parking lot proper, zeroing in on Peter’s sedan. 

“Good,” El replied, “because I’m trying out a new recipe tonight and I’m going to want your opinion on it while it’s still fresh. So you tell that agent—”

She stopped; so did Peter. Neal gurgled, blissfully unaware. 

“… Satch?”

Satchmo was whimpering, now barking, at Peter’s trunk. The Labrador fidgeted, but he kept his attention fixed on the rear of the car, rigid at the haunches. Peter looked at El— she looked back at him— and they both tried to pull the dog back. They’d taken a lot of time and effort in training him; he didn’t sound off without a good reason.

Peter tensed. Trouble had crossed his path too many times in the past for him to expect anything that wasn’t of the _disruptive and probably very bad_ variety. 

Silently, he waved his hand, signaling his wife to step away and hide herself and their son behind one of the neighboring autos. She nodded, dropped Satch’s leash (the dog had quieted down, but refused to budge) and took the stroller a few cars down, disappearing behind a black pickup. Emboldened (but not encouraged), Peter brushed aside his jacket, slipping his hand over his holster and drawing his pistol in one fluid motion. He wanted his instincts to be wrong, he really did, but he wasn’t desperate enough to argue them. 

_Deep breath._ His thumb hovered over his key fob. _Steady hands._

_Thump_ went the lock mechanism. Peter gingerly pried his fingers beneath the trunk, opening it as he stepped back and—

His throat went dry.

Half a second was dedicated to wondering how the heck someone managed to shove a corpse into his car within feet of an FBI building. The other half of the second helped him realize that no, it wasn’t a dead body. 

Still didn’t explain how _there was a man in his damn trunk._

Mystery Man was squinting into the sun, trying to lift his arm to block out the light. He thrust said arm back to his side, however, when Peter snapped a sufficiently imposing, “Don’t move,” and adjusted his aim to line up with the man’s nose.

The next thing Mystery Man thought to do was say—

“Hi. Got a license for that peashooter?”

_Now of all the cheeky…!_ But years of dealing with smart-aleck cons had prepared him for even this. (He should never have had to be prepared for this— whatever _this_ actually was.) It almost felt routine, actually, as he flashed his badge from his breast pocket.

“Peter Burke, FBI,” he droned.

“Huh.” Somehow, Mystery Man wasn’t fazed. He seemed more interested in eyeing up Satchmo, who was returning the favor. “Nice dog. Bit of a fan of retrievers myself.”

“Cute. Glad you like conversation. Maybe that means you want to tell me who you are and why you broke into the trunk of my car?”

He shrugged, spreading his fingers in a defensive gesture. “Oh, this is _your_ car? You know, I’d love to explain, but I’ve been trying to keep a bit of a low profile. Would you believe me if I said my name is Marv and I’m just a back alley hobo looking for a place to sleep?”

Peter narrowed his eyes. “Am I supposed to?” 

There was something about this guy, something familiar. Not just the way he bantered as if they were having a snappy conversation that wasn’t at gunpoint, but something about his face. Something he knew he’d be kicking himself over if he didn’t figure it out in—

Oh. 

Oh _no._ It _couldn’t_ be.

Completely despite himself, Peter wore a dry grin.

Not-So-Mystery Man frowned. “Whoa, what gives? I haven’t even set up the joke yet, let alone give the punch line.”

The agent adjusted his grip on his sidearm, a few of the muscles in his shoulders relaxing. “You are the punch line,” he replied in a low voice, “and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Clint Barton, formerly of the Avengers and now considered a fugitive to practically every sovereign nation on the planet. Am I right?”

Stiffening, the man gave a watery smile. “I’m willing to give Marv the Hobo one more shot if you are.”

Maybe it was in the face of his better judgment (or maybe not) but Peter lowered his gun.

“I’d say ‘nice to meet you,’ but I’m not sure I should, given that there’s a warrant for your arrest by the United States government.”

“…Yeah. Awkward.”

Was that really the best he could say? Then again, if the previously government-sanctioned spec ops master superhero known as Hawkeye was using his words instead of his fists, maybe Peter shouldn’t complain— especially not with the two most important people in the world (and the most important dog in the world) within a thirty yard radius.

“So,” Barton continued, daring to sit himself up a little straighter, narrowly missing the trunk hatch with his head. “Let me guess. This is the part where you tell me that you’ve got to arrest me, right?”

_To be honest?_

Peter wasn’t entirely on board with the government’s idea of using its resources to hound former heroes, many of whom were still out saving lives on their own time. He understood the importance of keeping wild cards in check, sure; but considering he had several years under his belt of making exceptions and excuses for a wayward forger and thief, it wasn’t exactly his place to say that the strictest regulations were the best solution. The Sokovia Accords had a point, a noble mission at the core, but were they really the only answer? That wasn’t for Peter to decide. It wasn’t his battle.

…Until Homeland Security showed up at his doorstep, having oh-so-kindly staged an ex-Avenger and Inhuman hunting expedition and making White Collar Crimes their campground.

He wasn’t too keen about that, either.

Now, there were two ways of dealing with this. He could try his best to detain Barton, keeping him in one place just long enough for backup to arrive, and if he were so lucky as to pull that off, Yamada and his posse might be satisfied enough with such a big catch that they would leave his division alone. Again, that relied on luck. Lots of luck. Totally impossible levels of luck. 

On the other hand, he could put his job in total jeopardy if word ever managed to get out (were there any security cameras scouting this lot? he hoped not) and let Barton go free. That involved luck, too. Were his good fortunes really enough to keep this situation on the down low? Was it worth letting an admittedly dangerous man run away on the grounds of personal opinions and the selfish, deep-seated desire to make Agent Yamada’s life difficult?

(If Peter were alone, he’d be muttering “Why me?” to the heavens by now.)

“You know,” Barton cut in through his pondering, “it would be great if that face you’re making means you _aren’t_ going to give me a hard time about this. I could just go hide in someone else’s trunk and we could pretend this never even happened. Sound good?”

“It would, if I could trust you and manage to keep my neck off the line.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Peter glared half-heartedly at the vigilante. “But given that you’re ex-Avengers and the sort of training that implies, I don’t know if I’m the one who’s really holding all the cards. 

Barton pointed his finger in a _gotcha_ motion, as if that had always somehow been the point. Casually, he answered, “Very true. I mean, you seem a decent fellow— I’d hate to kill you.”

A moment passed before Peter rolled his eyes. If Barton expected the other half of that _The Princess Bride_ reference in reply, he’d better know how to handle disappointment. “Funny. Now get the heck out of my car before I realize how much of a risk I’m taking.”

“Oh, with pleasure.” Shrugging, Barton slid effortlessly out of the trunk and onto the pavement, careful to slip out of Satch’s bite radius. “Nice meetin’ you, Agent Burke. Take care. You too, big guy.” He nodded at the wary Labrador as he walked backwards towards the opposite end of the lot. “Keep on keeping on.”

All Peter could do was shake his head and holster his pistol. As he watched the man leave, he noticed that El was standing relatively visible by the taillights of the pickup truck. Barton acknowledged her and paused briefly as she spoke, telling him… something. He nodded after mulling over the mystery words and continued along his way until he vanished from sight like a specter. 

“Well, that was a shock, huh?”

Closing the trunk with a solid shove, Peter eyed his wife. “What did you say to him?” he asked as she and Neal approached.

There was something to her expression that he recognized as feigned innocence. “Oh, I just thanked him for the good work the Avengers have done.”

“And?”

“And what?” She smiled. “Peter, relax. No one’s going to find out, right?”

Peter grimaced, staring at his vehicle. “Let’s just say I’ll be inventing cover stories on the drive back.” _Speaking of…_ His line of sight flicked over to his watch. “I’m sorry, hon, I’ve got to go. You’ll be okay?”

Her hand lighted on his shoulder, stealing the weight off of his chest. “Why wouldn’t we be? I feel safer knowing Hawkeye’s in town than if he weren’t.” Using her other hand to soothe Satchmo with a pat on the head, she showed Peter a new expression, one of confidence. “Go on. I’m pretty sure that’s all the excitement we’re going to see for the day.”

“It better be.” He laid a gentle kiss on El’s cheek. “After this,” he added, leaning over towards the stroller to tickle Neal’s stomach, “being caged up in the office doesn’t sound bad. Well… half as bad.” The little boy cooed at him, grabbing for his fingers. “I’ll see you tonight, little guy. Keep your mom out of trouble, okay?”

El laughed. “No promises. Love you, hon.”

“Love you too,” Peter nodded, standing straight. “If anything weird _does_ happen, just—”

“I’ll let you know right away, don’t worry.”

“Good. I’ll see you later.”

He watched his little family stroll away as if they hadn’t just had a one-in-a-million encounter with an infamous superhero. (Again, why did this stuff happen to him?) Nothing to do but get in his car (how _did_ Barton manage to break in without ruining the vehicle’s integrity?), return to his office (turned temporary prison), and hope that all his field work had fine-tuned his poker face to perfection.

Everything would be fine, right?

Probably.

 

Everything was not fine.

Well, everything was fine, comparatively. The only thing Agent Yamada realized he had scolding grounds for was the fact that Peter ran a little over his promised one hour; otherwise it seemed that, despite the fancy surveillance and dedicated man power, the Homeland Security team didn’t have as firm a grip on super activity as they thought. Peter did have to stay late by two hours, but he again managed to talk his way into freedom. Not that he wanted to leave his office alone with some pushy strangers, but he wasn’t about to spend the whole night sitting quietly and looking pretty. He left with the stipulation that he would be on call, no exceptions, should they find some less asinine reason to bring him back in.

Then he got home and found a fugitive holding his baby.

As bad as that sounds, it wasn’t as horrible a scenario as it could have been. No, he was not fine with the fact that, for some reason, Clint Barton was now here to torment him at his own house and was standing by the table, gently bouncing Neal in his arms. He was not fine with it because he didn’t know _why_ this was the case, and if it was in some way bad, and if he should panic. But from the second after a solidly exasperated, “What are _you_ doing here?” left his lips, things got better. Not fine, but better.

Elizabeth’s voice carried over from the kitchen. “Oh, hey, hon. It’s fine, I invited Clint over for dinner.”

Barton smiled politely. “She is an amazing cook, Burke. I mean, I’ve had shrimp with _sambhar masala_ a hundred times, but that was one of the best seafood dinners I’ve ever had.”

“Hold on a sec.” There were more important things to discuss than El making another meal with fancy ingredients he couldn’t remember, let alone pronounce. “One accidental meeting in a parking lot, and he’s ‘Clint’ now? How did that happen?” Staring down the man with an unashamedly suspicious glance, he wandered further into the house. “May I also mention that he’s holding our son?”

Leave it to El to tut at him. “Peter, Mr. Barton’s been through a lot, and most of that has directly or indirectly protected us in some way. I think he at least deserves a nice dinner. And he’s been very good with Neal, who happens to like him quite a bit.”

She turned to the refrigerator to fish out a plate, but not before giving Peter a Look— that sort of _be polite_ Look that always managed to make him feel guilty even when he shouldn’t. 

“Yeah, me and the little guy have hit it off,” chimed Barton as Neal grabbed clumsily for his chin. “He’s a great conversationalist.”

The infant burbled a syllable or two in what might as well have been agreement.

Being honest, Peter wanted to be understanding. He wanted to say _hey, sure, invite an international celebrity in spy and assassin circles to our house and I’ll totally be fine with that_ because it would be the easiest way out. But it just wasn’t that simple.

He did, however, remain ‘polite’ and didn’t demand to have Neal handed over to him right then. In fact, he merely watched them for a moment; watched the way Barton’s muscular arms secured Neal with a textbook blend of gentleness and security. This was different from the man in the news segments who fought in perfect form against artificial intelligence and aliens. This was different from the poise of the archer. 

This was what a father looked like.

A thin smile grew slowly on his lips. “How many kids?” he asked.

At first, Barton didn’t respond, eyes unblinking. But then—

“Three.” He peered down at the baby, his head nodding with a fond and noiseless chuckle. “Youngest is about his age.” Suddenly, his grin turned wry. “Not what you expected, huh?”

No. At this point, Barton’s face could be the visual definition of _unexpected._

Peter let the question be, taking off his suit jacket and draping it on the back of the chair nearest him. Sure, Barton could be lying about his kids— it could all be part of a well-rehearsed cover tactic, learning how to posture oneself like a parent— but neither truth nor lies would make the present scenario any less hypothetically dangerous. If there were ulterior motives floating around, Peter was fairly convinced that they would have showed up already. Still, things would be closer to _fine_ if the ex-Avenger just wasn’t here.

“Okay,” cut in El, waiting out the microwave’s reheating cycle. “Hon, you sit down, and this’ll be ready in a second. Clint, I can’t imagine you get to see your kids often. That must be tough.”

“Yeah. Price of being a hero,” he noted flatly. “Sorry, _vigilante_ ,” he then snarked. “Still getting used to the job switch. I just want to say, Mrs. Burke—”

“Please, ‘Elizabeth’ is fine. I’m not ready to be treated like a senior citizen yet.”

“— Noted. Look, I’d like to thank both of you for keeping your cool, considering what’s been going on around me. Maybe I’m presuming too much, but…” His expression was taking on an edge of curiosity. “You guys… seem like you’re almost used to this.”

It hurt to admit that Barton was right, so Peter chose to admit nothing at all. He was accustomed with covering for certain legally dubious people as the justifiable means to a necessary end. Whether he should or shouldn’t was an inner debate he held regularly, but no matter the outcome, old habits really were tenacious— and not only did they die hard, but they liked to spread. After all, El had finally gotten to the point where she apparently only needed to know the rumored basics about a forger or grifter or, in this case, fugitive before inviting them over for dinner. That alone made Peter wonder if he should stop poking the legal boundaries so much.

But where Peter faced moral dilemmas, El just answered the question plainly. “We take in a few strays now and then,” she said. “That’s all.”

Barton huffed a laugh. “I’m not exactly a stray, though.”

“True,” Peter noted. 

It wasn’t because he had any grounds to say that, no— but because he knew his wife and how she operated, and because he would never be able to keep up a poker face long enough to hide an event like unceremoniously ‘adopting’ an ex-Avenger. For now, he was more than content with the two most important people (and the most important dog) in the world.

He also was content with keeping his job and not getting arrested on charges of aiding and abetting.

(That too.)

But certainly, one dinner invite wasn’t hurting. It wouldn’t lead to any long term associations or adoptions. Right?

Right.

_…Probably?_


End file.
